Fuck. I’d hoped it wasn’t what I thought. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “How deep are you in with him?”
A small, but confident grin curves his lips. “I’m his son.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Drake—”
“Save it, Mase, really. I mean”—he holds his arms out and motions around—“look at this, all this. I’m living a life you only see in movies, man.”
“Yeah, the ones where your character gets gunned down in the end.”
“In a flame of glory.”
“Or in the trunk of a car and a shallow grave.” I shake my head and feel the beginning of a headache throbbing in my temples. Whatever buzz I was riding when I left Blake’s wedding is now non-existent.
“You don’t need to worry about me.” He stubs out his joint on the edge of the fire pit. “My dad didn’t float my ass through high school with new cars and shit or pay my way to a Big Ten school like yours did, but I’m doing alright now.”
No, his dad didn’t do the things for him that mine did for me. I’d always felt like shit having the nicer things and tried to share as much as I could, but the fact of the matter is, my dad was a successful plastic surgeon married to my mom. Until Drake’s dad came to town and caught her eye. My dad didn’t realize Drake wasn’t his until after he was born and it was obvious he looked nothing like him.
A simple DNA test told my dad everything he needed to know. I swear to this day, after my parents got divorced, he set me up financially just to torture my mom. Drake would always be her reminder of what she’d given up for a quick fling with a bad boy.
“You two done making out?” Harrison saunters on to the patio, clearly high or drunk as hell. “We’ve got plans for the night that start, like, now.”
“What happens in Vegas . . .” Drake lifts an eyebrow before standing up to head in.
I do the same and fight the urge to yawn as exhaustion sweeps over me.
Once back inside the suite, I let my gaze slide through the room, taking in all the booze, drugs, and money that are cast around like part of the décor. Confirmation that my little brother has been pulled deeper and deeper into the world his immoral leader had created.
Jayden has his nose practically buried in a mound of white power while Birdman sorts through small square tabs, bagging them in Ziplocs the size of a quarter.
Drake’s dad had a horrible reputation in our town. He was accused of everything from robbery to assault with a deadly weapon, but none of it ever seemed to stick. Our mom tried to get Drake’s dad to be part of his life, but he wasn’t interested until shortly before my brother’s seventeenth birthday when his Dad had lured him into his world of corruption and God knows what else.
I school my expression so they can’t see the look of disgust, disappointment, and worry that I’m feeling. The sound of a doorbell rings through the room.
Harrison jumps up from the couch. “I think the entertainment just got here.” His eyes light and he rushes to the door.
“Looks like Pops hooked us up with this sick-ass suite and female companionship for the night.” Drake leans in, blowing pot smoke in my face. Another joint? Fuckin’ hell. I hold my breath, knowing that if a drug test picks up even a trace of that shit, Cameron will kick my ass, rip up my contract, and sprinkle it over my bloodied body.
He lifts one eyebrow and grins through his higher-than-Sputnik expression. “And you wonder why I’m in this business.” With a shrug, he slouches deeper into the couch as if his point has been proven.
“Helllllo, boys . . .” The soft female voice purrs, and when I turn, I’m met with a pair of violet eyes.
No fuckin’ way. “We meet again.”
Her bright eyes turn feral. “You.”
“Looks like I made an impression.”
Trix
That arrogant son of a prick!
After the way he treated me in the lobby, he has the nerve to try to be charming? That slanted smile and glare, a wicked combo of primal masculinity, won’t work with me, buster. Nope. He wants to exercise his magnetism; he’s barking up the wrong dancer.
All that blond hair, tan skin, and impressive build, he thinks he can push girls around and we’re just going to fall to our knees reaching for his zipper. Ha! Not likely. No way. I’m a damn professional; restraining myself against the pull of attraction is my job.
But really, what is he doing here? What are the chances?
Shake it off, Trix. It’s all about the job.
It actually hurts. The glare I’m aiming at this damn man is making my head ache and my eye twitch. I’m not at all surprised that he’s pinning me with a similar scowl that only manages to piss me off more.